The Land of Suspense

BLACKWOOD'S

Etrintntrglt
MAGAZINE.

VOL. CLXI.

JANUARY— JUNE 1897.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH;

AND

37 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.

1897.

All Rights of Translation and Republication reserved.

»o^Ie

1897.]

The Land of Suspense.

131

THE LAND OF SUSPENSE.

A STORY OP THE SEEN AND DNSEEN.

The young man set out upon
his walk at the entrance of a
broad valley, through which there
was visible here and there the
glimmer of a great river. It was
broken in outline by many little
hills, such as one sees in the love-
liest part of Italy, each crowned
by its little groups of habitations,
in varied and delightful inequal-
ities of height and form, which
seemed to throw a radiance of
life and living over the beautiful
green slopes, fields, and trees in
which these points of light and
peace were set. Lines of blue
hills receding towards the distant
peaks, which were great enough
to be called mountains, stretched
in noble ridges on either side ;
and the landscape was one which
filled the traveller with a sense
of beauty and satisfaction, while
drawing his mind and his steps on
by a hundred suggestions of fairer
things still unrevealed. And the
morning was fresh and sweet, be-
yond even that " innocent bright-
ness of the newborn day," of
which few can resist the charm.
The sky was flooded with the
early sunshine. The valley glowed
under it with the dew still undried
upon the grass, much of which
was half buried in flowers, and
soft with the whiteness of the
daisies rejoicing in the light. The
young man had come over a pass
between the hills when this pros-
pect bursting upon him for a mo-
ment took away his breath — but
it was only for a moment. He
paused to gaze upon the road be-
fore him, and then with a delight-

ful consciousness that his walk
would bring him into fuller pos-
session of this new world un-
known to him, ' he set out upon
his way.

The curious thing was, that
he did not know where he was
going, nor what place this was,
nor the direction in which it
would lead him, though all the
while he walked quickly on with
the sure and certain steps of a
man familiar with every turn of
the path. For some time he went
on, unconscious of this, or at least
without thinking of it in the ease
of his being. He had always
been fond of walking, and there
was a pleasure in the mere sense
of movement, after some recent
absence from that delight — absence
and confinement which he was
aware of, though he could not ren-
der to himself any reason for it.
He was in full career, feeling as if
his foot just touched and no more
the path which was not then a
highroad but a winding path
across the slopes, upon which the
flowery fields encroached — when
it first occurred to him hazily with
a happy sense of amusement that
he did not in the least know
where he was going. No matter
— he was going as if he very
well knew where : and there came
into his mind a scrap of lovely
verse, about " a spirit in my feet,"
and he began to sing it to him-
self as he went on. Certainly
there was a spirit in his feet that
knew better where he was going
than he.

Thus he went, without pause

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or weariness, for a long way, — so
long, that at last he began to
wonder how it was that the day-
light did not change, that there
was no difference in the skies to
correspond with the hours which
he must have been walking. In
himself he was like the day, un-
changed, without the faintest sug-
gestion of fatigue ; and it was only
by the long vista behind him, and
the distance of the hills from
which he had come, that he felt
how long a time he had been
afoot. When this thought oc-
curred to him he sat down upon
the low embankment which marked
the line of the wood, for he had
by this time reached the highway
— to rest, as he said to himself,
though he felt no need of rest —
really to measure with his eyes the
length of the valley before him,
which went widening away into
the blue recesses of distant hills,
so that you could trace no end to
it. The highroad led along the side
of the river at this point, through
groups of beautiful trees ; and at
some distance on the other side
there was planted a great town
spreading far back into the valley,
which seemed, from the inequali-
ties of its buildings, to be built
on innumerable little hills, and
shone white under the sunshine
with many towers and spires, in
great stateliness and beauty. It
was here for the first time that
the traveller saw any concourse
of people. Upon the Blopea he
had met but few, mostly soli-
tary individuals, with here and
there a group of friends. They
were a people of genial counte-
nance, smiling, and with friendly
looks ; but it surprised and a little
wounded him that they took no
notice of him, did not give him
so much as a Good morning — nay,
even pushed him off the path,
though without the least appear-

ance of any unkindly feeling. As
he sat upon the roadside and
watched the people of this un-
known land coming and going
across the bridge from the town,
his heart was moved within him
by the sight of so many fellow-
creatures, all, as it seemed, so gay,
so kind, so friendly, but without
a sign or look as if they recog-
nised his existence at all. It
seemed to him a long time since
he had exchanged a word with
any one, and a great sense of lone-
liness took possession of him. He
had not felt this upon the little-
frequented paths from which he
had come; but here, among so
many, to receive not even a look
from any passer-by seemed to him
an injury and a disappointment
which it was hard to bear.

He reflected, however, that in
the country from which he came
such a thing might easily have
happened with a wandering for-
eigner resting upon the roadside,
whom nobody knew : yet he
was scarcely comforted by this
thought, for he felt sure that at
least such a stranger would have
been looked at, if no more — would
have met the questioning of many
eyes, some with perhaps a smile
in them, and all curious to know
what he did there. Even curi-
osity would have been something :
it would have been kinder than
to ignore him completely as these
people were doing : yet there was
nothing in their look to make him
believe that they were unfeeling or
discourteous. After a while he felt
that he could bear this estrange-
ment from his kind no longer, and
getting up on his feet, he said
11 Good morning "to a group that
were passing, feeling in himself
that there was a wistfulness, al-
most an entreaty in his tone. He
saw that they were startled by
his address, and looked round

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first, as if to see where his voice
came from — yet in a moment
answered, with what seemed al-
most an outcry of response and
greeting, saying " Good morning,"
and " God bless you ! " eagerly.
Then one made himself the spokes-
man of a group, and advanced a
step towards him, yet still with
an uncertainty, and eyes that did
not exactly meet his, but wavered
as if unable to fix his face. " Are
you going to our town?" he said ;
" can any of us be of use to you ? "
and there was a murmur among
all as of assent, "any of us," as
if to press help upon him if he
needed it: but he required no help
— it was only recognition that he
wanted, a kind word. "No," he
said ; "I am going there" and he
pointed towards the farther end
of the valley. A number had
gathered round him, all looking
at him with great kindness, but
with the same uncertainty of gaze,
all eagerly bending toward him to
hear what he said. Their looks
warmed his heart, yet a little
repelled him too, as if there was
something between him and them
which made it better to go on,
and try no further communication.
"I am going there" he repeated,
moving a step onward : and imme-
diately they all spoke together in a
wonderful accord of voices, saying,
" God be with you ! God save
you ! God bless you ! " some of
them so much in earnest that
there seemed to him to be tears
in their eyes. There was some-
thing in these words which seemed
to urge him on, and he resumed
his journey, passing through, and
looking back upon them, and
waving his hand to them in sign
of farewell. And they all stood
looking after him, calling after
him "God bless you !" and "God
save you ! " until the sense of dis-
tance from them melted away, and

his whole being seemed warmed
with their kind looks and good
wishes. He could hear them, too,
all talking together and saying,
"It is one of the travellers," to
which the others answered again,
" God save him ! " as if it was
the greeting of that country to
all that went through.

Thus he went on again, always
keeping his course towards the
western end of the valley, and
pleased with this encounter, even
though there was that something
in it which startled him, as he
seemed to have startled them.
Looking across the river at the
city, with all its white terraces
shining in the sun, and its high
towers and pinnacles against the
sky, and the river at its feet re-
flecting every point and shining
height, as if it were another city
at the feet of the true town, he
thought he had never seen so
beautiful a place ; but what town
it was or who the people were who
dwelt there he knew not. All he
knew was that they were his
fellows, that they had bidden God
bless him, that they wished him
well : and this gave him great re-
freshment as he went on, feeling
no fatigue, but now more than ever
wondering that though he did not
know where he was going, he was
yet going on straight and swift as
if he were sure of the way. For
a little time the road ran by the
river, but then parted from its
winding course, and presently
broke into several ways, where a
stranger in that place might so
easily have lost himself, not know-
ing which to take. But he found
no difficulty, nor even paused to
choose his way, going lightly on
without any hesitation, as one who
knew exactly how the bearings lay.

By this time the sun was lower
in the heavens, and a sweet look
of evening had come over the

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sky — the look which suggests home-
going, and that labours of all kinds
and travel should be drawing to
some end of rest and ease. And
since the pause he had made on
his journey, short as it was, and
his second setting forth, there had
stolen into his mind a wonderful
sense that he was going, not upon
an excursion into an unknown
world, but home. The sensation
was one that he did not know
how to explain to himself, for he
knew that it was not the home
from which he had come, nor any
accustomed place. And he did
not know where it was, nor what
he might find there ; but the im-
pression grew upon him more
and more strongly as he went on.
And many thoughts came with
this thought. He did not think
of the home from which he had
come. It appeared to him as
something far, far away, and
different from all that he saw or
that surrounded him now. But
the thought that he was going
home, though not there, brought
a seriousness into his thoughts
which he had not been conscious
of when he set forth first in
the morning, in all the enthu-
siasm of the beautiful unknown
place into which he marched
forward so confident and full
of cheer.

He became more serious now.
Vaguely there came into his mind
a recollection that his former goings
home had not been always happy.
There had been certain things in
which he was to blame. He could
not have said what things, nor
how this was, his consciousness and
memory being a little blurred, as
if something had come between
him and the former things which
had moved his life ; but yet he was
vaguely aware that he had been
to blame. And his mind filled
with all manner of resolutions and

thoughts of a goodness to come,
which should be perfect as the
face of nature, and the purity of
the air and the sky. He said to
himself that never again — never
again ! though his recollection
failed him when he tried to make
clear to himself what it was which
should never again be. It was
vague to him, leaving only a sense
that all had not been as this was
about to be ; but yet the fervour of
his conviction of the better things
to come was as intense as if he had
perfectly conceived what there was
to be done, and what there had
been. Never again, never again ! —
no more as of old : but all perfect
and spotless in the new. These
resolutions distilled into his mind
like dew, they shed themselves
through bis being like some de-
lightful balm, refreshing him as
though his heart had grown dry,
but now was filled with calm and
a quiet happiness of hoping and
anticipation, though he did not
know what he anticipated any
more than what it was which had
made a shadow in the past

In this mood he began again
to ascend a little upon a path
which broke off from the highway
towards one of the little towns or
villages raised above the level of
the valley, with towers and trees
mingling on the little height, which
made him think of an old Tuscan
picture. He went towards it, with
an eagerness rising within him and
a confidence that it was here that
his destination was. All the day
long he knew that he had been
travelling to this spot, and recog-
nised it though he knew it not.
He went on unhesitating, gradually
making out the ranges of building,
which were of beautiful architec-
ture, though in a style unknown
to him, with graceful pinnacles
rising as light as foam against the
sky, and open arcades and halls,

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135

cool and bright, where every door
stood open, and he could see sheer
above him as he mounted the wind-
ing way the groups of men and
women in the houses, and many
faces at the windows looking out,
as if on the watch for some one
who was coming. Were any of
them looking out for him he won-
dered to himself] without any
sense that it was unlikely there
should be watchers looking for him
in a place where he had never been
before, in an unknown country
which was strange to all his pre-
vious knowledge.

But no restraining conscious-
ness like this was on him as he
hastened up the steep way, and
suddenly turning round the corner
of the wall, which was wreathed
with blossoming plants in a glow
of colour and fragrance, came in
sight of the wide and noble gate-
way all open, with its pillars glow-
ing in the westering light, and no
sign of bolt or bar or other hin-
drance to shut out any wayfarer.
In front of it stood a group of
figures, which seemed to be on the
watch for some one. Did they ex-
pect some prince or lordly visitor 1
were they the warders of the gate ?
They stood two and two, beautiful
in the first glow of youth, their
fair, tall, elastic forms clothed in
white, with the faint difference
which at that lovely age is all that
seems to exist between the maiden
and the youth. They were like
each other as brothers might be,
and the traveller felt suddenly
with a strange bound of his heart
that he knew these faces, though
not whom they belonged to, nor
who they were. They were as the
faces of others whom he had known
in the land that was so far off be-
hind him : and all at once he knew
that they were looking for no prince
or potentate but for himself, all
strange as he was, unacquainted

with this place, and with all that
was here.

They stood looking far along
the valley from that height, and
asking each other, "Do you see
him ? do you see him 1 " but they
did not seem to be aware that he
was there, standing close to them,
looking at them with eager eyes.
He stood silent for a moment,
thinking they must perceive him,
yet wondering how they would
know him, having never seen him
before : but soon became impatient
and troubled by that pause, and,
vexed to be overlooked, said sud-
denly, " I am here — if perhaps you
are looking for ma"

They were startled, and turned
their faces towards him, but with
that strange wistful look as if they
him not which he had re-

saw

marked in the people whom he met
by the bridge — and then they came
hastily forward and surrounded
him as if with an angelic guard,
and he saw with a strange tremor
that tears had come into their eyes.
" Oh our brother ! " said one, in a
voice so full of pity that it seemed
to him that he pitied himself,
though he knew not why, in
sympathy. And "Speak," said
the others, "Bpeak, that we may
know you." While, "Oh my
brother," cried the first again, " it
is not thus we hoped to see you."
This voice seemed to pierce into
his inmost heart, and sadness came
over him as if his hope had fallen
away from him, and this after all
was not his home.

" This is who I am," he said ;
and he told them his name, and
that he had come from afar off,
and had come straight here with-
out a pause, thinking that this
was his home.

They surrounded him closely, as
closely as if they would embrace
him, and said to him, but with
tears, one speaking with another,

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11 It is your home : and we are your
brothers and your sisters, and we
have known you were coming, but
hoped that you would come other-
wise. But we love you not the
less, oh our brother, our brother !
we love you none the less — God
save you ! God bless you ! There is
no one here that does not love you
and bless you and pray for you.
Dear brother, son of our mother !
would to God you had but come
to us in other wise."

" I cannot tell what you mean,"
he said, with a trembling coming
over him. " If I am your brother,
why do you not take me in1 I
have travelled far to-day, from the
very opening of the valley, and
never paused — alwaya thinking
that there was home at the end —
and now you stand between me
and the door, and weep, and will
not let me in."

"Brother," they said all to-
gether, " brother ! " It seemed as
if in that word lay all sweetness
and consolation and pity and love.
The circle seemed to open round
him, leaving the great wide door-
way full of the low sunshine from
the west clear before him, and
some one came out and stood
upon the threshold and stretched
out his hands, calling to him, " My
son, my son ! "

It seemed to the young man
that it wanted but a few steps to
carry him to the arms of this man
who called to him, and to whom
his heart went out as if it would
burst from his breast. But he
that had walked so lightly all day
long and felt no weariness, found
himself now as one paralysed, in-
capable of another step. He stood
and gazed piteously at the wide
open gate, and him who stood
there, and knew that this was the

ftlace to which he had been travel-
ing, and the home he desired, and
the father that he loved. But he

could not make another step. His
feet seemed rooted to the ground.
There came from him a great out-
burst of tears and anguish, and he
cried to them, "Tell me, tell me!
— why is it I cannot go % "

The white figures gathered all
round him again, as if they would
have taken him in their arms, and
the first of them spoke, weeping,
putting out her hands : " Brother,"
she said, " those that come here,
those that come home, must first
be clothed with the building of
God, the house not made with
hands ; those who are unclothed,
as you are, alas ! they cannot
come in. Brother, we have no
power, and you have no power.
The doors are open, and the hearts
are open, and would to God you
could come in ; but oh, my brother !
what can I say ? It is not for us
to speak ; you know "

" I know," he said, and stood
still among them silent, his heart
hushed in his bosom, his head
bowed down with trouble, hearing
them weeping round him, and well
aware that he could not go up,
not had he the strength of a giant.
He stood awhile, and then he said,
" My home was never closed to
me before ; never have I failed of
entrance there and welcome, and
my mother's light always burning
to guide me. She would have
torn me from these stones, and
brought me in had she been here.
Never, never, was there a ques-
tion ! And yet," he cried,

wildly, "you called that earth,
and this you call heaven ! " This
he cried, not knowing what he
said : for never before had there
been any thought in his mind
what the name of this country
was.

Then his sister called him by
his name, and the sound of his
name half consoled him, and half
made the contrast more bitter, re-

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137

minding him of that place from
whence he came, where his was
the innermost seat and the best
welcome, while here he was kept
outside. " Do not be so sore dis-
couraged," she said, " for one day
you will come and enter at the
gate with joy, and nothing will be
withheld from you ; and we will
go to the Great Father and plead
with Him, that it may be soon,
and then your spirit will be no
longer unclothed, and all will be
well.

" Unclothed ! " he cried; "I
know not what you mean," and
he turned from them, pushing

them from him, and hurried down
the winding way which he had
ascended with so light a heart.
There were still the faces at the
windows looking out ; but though
he would not look at them, he
saw that they were troubled, and
many voices sounded out upon the
sweet air, calling to him, "God
save you ! God bless you I " over
and over again, till the whole
world seemed full of the sound.
But he took no heed of it as he
fled along the way in indignation
and bitter disappointment, saying
to himself, " And that was called
earth, and this they say is heaven."

n.

At the foot of the hill was a
wood encircling its base, with
many winding paths going through,
and yet here and there masses of
shadow from the trees, in which a
man might hide himself from every
eye, and even from the shining of
the daylight, which seemed to the
young man in all the glory of the
sunset to mock him as he fled
away from the place which was
his home. It was the dimness and
the shadow that attracted him
now, and not the glory of the
western sky or the dazzling of the
light. In the very heart of the
wood, kept by a circle of great
trees standing all around like a
bodyguard, there was a little open-
ing — a grassy bank like velvet,
all soft with mosses, with little
woodland blossoms creeping over
the soil, and all the woodland
scents and fragrance and sound
and silence, far from any sound
or sight of men. The young man
pushed through the copses and
between the great boles of the
trees, and flung himself upon the
cool and soft and fragrant bank ;
he flung himself upon his face and
hid it there, with a longing to be

rid even of himself and his con-
sciousness in that soft and shelter-
ing shade; but all the while
knowing, as he had often discovered
before, that however you might
cover your eyes, and even burrow
in the earth, you could not escape
from that most intimate companion,
nor shut your ears to his reason-
ings or his upbraidings. Elsewhere,
when one of those moments came,
and himself confronted and seized
himself, there had always been
those at hand who helped him out
of this encounter. The crowd, or
the tumult and conflict of living,
or pleasure, or pain, or some other
creature, had Btolen in and stopped
that conflict. But now was the
hour in which there was nothing
to intervene.

And at first what was in his
mind was nothing but bitter dis-
appointment and rage and shame.
He, whose coming back had always
been with joy, even when it came
with tears, before whom every door
had been thrown open, and whom
all about him had thanked with
wistful looks for coming home :
but now he was shut out. This
was too great an event, too un-

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looked for, to permit any other
thought beside it He remem-
bered himself of all the dear
stories of his youth, of him whom
his father saw afar off and rushed
to meet him, not waiting for the
confession that was on his lips.
And that was how hitherto it had
happened to him : and here, where
he now was, was not this the most
mercifullest place of all, where
everything was love and forgive-
ness ? He said this to himself, not
realising what place it was, not
knowing anything, though he had
seized upon the name of heaven
in his first horror of wonder and
upbraiding, to point the bewailing
and reproach. For a long time he
lay with his hot brow pressed
against those soft couches of moss,
closing out with his hands the
light from his eyes, in a despair
and anguish unspeakable — asking
himself why he had come here at
all, to be rejected and shut out)
Why, why had he not taken an-
other path he wot of, and plunged,

and gone Where? where? He

caught his sobbing breath, that
burst from his bosom like a child's,
in Leavings and sore reiterations of
distress. Where? where? There
would have been welcome in that
place ; and bands of jovial com-
panions, and noise, and shoutings.
Where? he did not know where.
But at last this convulsion and
passion softened away, and he
raised his head and looked himself
in the face. Ah, was not this
what I said, I said I Was not
this what we thought upon many
a morning, to forget it ere the
night? Was not this what we
knew, you and I ? but you would
not listen or hear. When we saw
the mother's light in the window,
when the door was thrown open,
wide open, did not we know that

the time would come ? This

was what his other self said in his
ear. He leaned his head upon his

hands and looked out in the sweet-
ness of the darkening shade, with
fixed eyes that saw nothing except
the past, which gripped his heart
and stayed his breath and came
back upon him in dreadful waves
of recollection and consciousness.
He saw scenes which he had
scorned when he was in them, and
loathed, and gone back to, and
wallowed, foaming — always with
rage and shame of himself. And
they had cost him already his
other life, and pangs innumerable ;
the price which he had paid for
nought, hard blood-money for that
which was no bread — which he had
known to be no bread even while
he consumed it — the husks which
the swine did eat That was how
the other man had named it, the
man whom his father ran to meet
and fell on his neck — but not
here. There had been to himself
also those who fell upon his neck
and forgave him before he said a
word — but not here.

This was not how he had felt
when he set out this morning upon
the beautiful way in the sunshine.
He had been sure then that all
was well : every evil thought had
departed out of his mind ; his
heart was tender and soft, loving
God and man, and the thought of
a life in which there should be no
reproach, no shadow, no evil, had
been sweet to him as is the ex-
quisite relief that comes after
pain. He remembered how he
had sung songs as he walked, in
the ease of his heart. And now !
Shut out, a homeless wanderer,
unclothed : what was that she
said ? unclothed : he did not know
what she meant; but the rest
which he did know was enough —
enough and more than enough :
he was abandoned, forsaken, the
door shut upon him — worse than
that, open, but he unable to enter :
left to himself to spend the night
in the wood — or anywhere, who

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139

cared? — though he himself was
blameless now, having done noth-
ing to deserve this doom, having
felt his heart so soft and a tender-
ness which was more than inno-
cence, a longing for every good
in his heart. Oh the other life
which he had left! the homely
house, the quiet room, the face all
smiling weeping, at the door !

" And that they called earth ;
and this they say is heaven."

He said this aloud, unawares —
and suddenly he was answered by
another voice, which seemed to be
near him, the voice of another man
standing somewhere close by, which
said, " No, you are mistaken ; this
is not heaven."

The young man raised his head
and looked round him ; and the
hair rose up upon his head, and a
thrill of shrinking and terror went
over him, for he saw no one. He
looked round him, drawing back
againBt the tree which crowned the
bank, and clutching at it in his
alarm : he was no coward, but
where is the man who can be
suddenly accosted by a voice while
seeing no one, and not be afraid 1
"I must have dreamed I heard
it," he said to himself : but rose up
with an impulse of agitation to
leave the place in which such de-
lusions could be.

Then he heard the voice again,
but this time lower down, and now
close to him, as if a man had sud-
denly sat down beside him upon
the bank. "Are you so new?" it
said, with a half laugh. "Have
you not discovered that you too
are invisible, like mef"

" Invisible ! " The young man's
voice shook with fear and wonder,
wavering as if blown out by the
wind, though there was no wind.

"Be consoled," said the other; "it
is no bad life : there is no fire nor
brimstone here : and there is hope
for those who love hope. Let us
talk : it wiles the hours away."

While the other spoke, the young
man, with a trembling in every
limb, held up his hands into the
air, and gazed with bis eyes, first
at one and then at the other — at
the places where he felt them,
where they ought to be. He felt
every nerve thrill and every finger
tremble and shake, but he saw
nothing. Awe and terror seized
upon him. He rushed from the
bank, which sloped under his feet
and made him look to his foot-
ing, and flung himself against the
trunk of one of the great trees.
He felt the touch of it, the rough-
ness of the bark, the projection of
the twigs here and there : but at
the same time he saw it clear,
standing with its feet deep in the
fern and undergrowth, and no
human body against it — this while
he felt still the thrill and shock
with which he came in contact
with that great substantial thing.
And he uttered a great cry, " I
am then no more a man!" in a
voice which rang shrill with horror
and misery and dismay.

" Yes," said the other, "you are
still a man. And be consoled. In
some things it is better than the
old life. You have no wants and
no weariness, likewise no work, no
responsibility. Be consoled. The
discovery is painful for a mo-
ment, but you will find companions
enough. What has happened to
you is no more than has happened
to many other men : and we have
great freedom, and society at our
pleasure. There is a future before
us, though it may be thousands of
years away.

"A future!" cried the young
man; "nay, let me die and be
done with it What manner of
man are you that can look calmly
on a future like this 1 My God, to
live and live and be nothing, as I
am now ! "

"I am," said the other, "jnst
such a manner of man as you will

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be to-morrow. It is a shock when
you discover it first — but what
then 1 Life is but thought. There
is a great prejudice in favour of a
visible body, at all events in the
race from which we come. But
you will perceive how little in
reality it matters when you realise
how many things you can do and
enjoy, even with that deprivation.
You might never have found it
out, or not for a long time, but for
my friendly aid — for it is friendly,
I assure you. It breaks the illu-
sion. You will no longer expect
from those others that which they
have not to give. Sit down by
me, and cease measuring yourself
against that tree. The tree is solid,
but not you — yet there are many
consolations. Sit down again, and
let us talk."

The young man stood pressing
himself against the tree, his fore-
head against the roughness of the
bark which dinted the soft flesh,
his arraa stretched round it, not
long enough to span its girth, but
pricked by the little growths which
incniBted it. He clung to the
great trunk as if it gave him a
hold upon something tangible, the
only thing that remained to him.
They had not seen him, then, these
fair creatures, at the gate. That
which they heard, that which they
addressed, was only a voice. No-
body had seen him along the
way. Those who said " God save
you " had meant something which
he did not yet understand. There
was reason for the pity in their
eyes and the tears which he had
seen them shed. He had seen
them, but not they him. He was
no man, but only a voice. The
horror grew into an awe which
quenched the cries with which his
heart was bursting. He without
a faculty impaired, hearing every-
thing, seeing everything, feeling
with such intensity as he had
never felt before ! Yet he was

now no man, but a voice. The
calamity was so great and so un-
locked for, that his very voice,
the thing he now was, seemed to
die in his throat, and his heart in
his breast : though all the time he
felt his heart beating, bounding,
as never in moments of the great-
est emotion it had done before,
and the blood coursing like a great
flood through the veins that were
not, and from head to foot of that
human frame which existed no
longer. Oh terrible doom ! oh
awful day!

" Gome and sit by me, and let us
talk," said the other voice.

And then there came a melting
and a softening over this forlorn
soul. If he was thus for ever
banished from common Bight — if
he was, indeed, exiled from home
and every tender fellowship, a
thing that no man or woman could
ever take by the hand again — still
to hear another voice was some-
thing in this awful mystery of
anguish. He loosed himself from
his tree, but kissed its rough bark
with a kind of passion as he drew
himself away. His finger had
caught a sharp twig, and it hurt
him ; his brow was marked, he
could feel it, with the scales of
the bark. ThiB gave him a little
comfort in his desolation. And
then there was still the Voice.
He came back and threw himself
upon the flowery bank, which sent
forth its wild fragrance suddenly
as he pressed it, as it might have

done if This also gave him a

little consolation, as if it were a
verification of the being which he
felt in every pulse and every limb.

"You were saying," said the
other, "that this was called
heaven."

" Ah, no ! " said the young man
with a voice of despair. "I see
my mistake. It is rather "

"Do not make any more mis-
takes/' said the other, quickly.

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141

" It ib neither one nor the other.
It is the land of Suspense, where
we all are until a day which no
one knows — a visionary day which,
perhaps, may never come, seeing it
has been threatened and delayed
for all the agea Ah ! yon can-
not imagine the worlds-full there
are of us ! and some of the great
Romans tell you that the tradition
was in their time as now,"

"The Day of Judgment!" said
the young man, very low.

" Well ! that is what they say.
But in the meantime, not to dis-
courage you, it is better here than
life was before. There are few
pleasures — those things that one
despised one's self for enjoying,
when time was. But the mind is
free — and there are a thousand
things to learn. And there is
society everywhere. We are here
in multitudes. There are almost
more of us, I believe, than of —
those others."

"Those others!" repeated the
young man — he looked up where
through the thick foliage there
was a glimpse of the towers and
roof-trees of that home which he
could not enter. His companion
spoke as if they were enemies :
but his own spirit rebelled against
that thought.

"The good people," said the
voice, as with a sneer. "What
made them to differ, do you ask 1
Oh, they made their preparations.
While we led joyeuee vie and had

no thought for to-morrow, they
took their measures. I am not
sure that those who have passed
by the Temple in the wood have
the best of it even now ; but at
least we have not much to com-
plain of. There is no suffering:
we are left to ourselves : we go
where we will, and have great
facilities : and, as I tell you, the
best of company. Only make up
your mind to the one loss, and
we have really much to congratu-
late ourselves upon."

The young man made no reply :
he began to hate this voice, with
its evenness of speech, the calm
and the encouragement of its tone.
He had known men who spoke
so, who were content to live,
though life had no hope, with a
sneer at those who were other
than they. And though a moment
ago he had been almost glad to
turn to another being deprived
and naked like himself, he felt
now that if he were but alone, it
would be more easy to bear. The
Voice went on talking to him
with the pleasure of one who has
found a new hearer. And some-
times he listened, and sometimes
heard it as though he heard it not.
Sometimes even it caught him
with an ingenious word and made
him laugh ; but then his mind
would stiffen into silence, and the
horror and gloom swept over him
again like the dark waves over a
wreck at sea.

in.

All the night long he sat there
leaning his head upon his hands,
sometimes leaning against the
great trunk of the tree behind
him, which gave him a sensation
of forlorn comfort, the only thing
that recognised him as still tang-
ible, a thing of flesh and blood.
He sat there amid all the fragrant
breathing of the night as in the

lap of a mother who cooled his
forehead with dewy touches, and
subdued his soul into the calm of
inanimate things. And yet there
was nothing inanimate in this
great realm of nature where the
air was fresh and free, like the
air upon a mountain -top where
there is no wind but only a sense
of being far above all hindrance

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or soil, and near to heaven.
The sky above was alive with
stars, stars that were something
more than stars, that had
rounded and expanded into orbs
of light and seemed almost within
reach, as if there might be means
of entering them and knowing
their secrets. The light that came
from them was enough to make
everything visible in a tender and
soft radiance where every variety
of shade had its own transparency
and sweetness of lovely meaning —
such a light as never was on sea or
shore. Through the openings of
the trees he could see far off the
whole course of the valley clear in
that mystic glow which was with-
out colour, where all was clear as
in a vision, unlike the brightness
of the day. The towers and pin-
nacles rose up on his right hand
over the trees as if made of silver:
the little floating vapours in the
sky, the great pulsing and move-
ment of the worlds of light above,
the air which was as a rapture
of purity and freedom, — all con-
veyed to the young man's bosom
the sensation of boundless space,
and a lofty height beyond the
thoughts of men. And there was
a subdued glow along the edge
of the horizon, as if there it passed
into pure light as the stars did
round their boundaries, hiding the
life within.

Sometimes this young man had
felt even upon the homely earth
something of that movement that
is in the spheres, the swaying
of the great planet as it ran its
course in the heavens ; but here
it seemed like a faint stir of life
in everything, a subtle and all-
pervading current, a movement
majestic, almost visible, in rhythm
and measure, like God Himself pro-
ceeding onward always in His
supernal way. After a time, when
the beating of the river of life in
his own ears, the throbbing of his

heart and current of his blood,
were calmed by this greater move-
ment and mystery, he gazed abroad
upon the majestic night with a
hush of reverence and of awe in
which there was adoration. He
was silent while God passed by,
and felt the sweep of the great
stars following in His train, and
the air upon his face, the breath
of their going, and the thrill of
that vast procession through illim-
itable skies. He, a spirit, though
not blessed, yet as a spirit recog-
nised the great course of innumer-
able worlds and circles of being,
following the mighty footsteps of
their King.

Thus one moment of amazed
and trembling revelation gave him
rest in the glory of the night, and
stilled the lesser voices and mur-
murs that filled his ears : but as a
man is after all the centre of all
systems to himself, the tide of
thought and feeling rolled back,
and with it the despair which the
knowledge of his own condition
had brought upon him. When
his eyes came back to his im-
mediate surroundings, the sudden
Bight of the green mound on which
he sat, with all its undergrowth
of moss and starry decoration of
minute flowers, vacant under the
faint light, as if there was no one
there, drove his soul almost to
madness in the sudden rediscovery.
He felt the soft knots of the grass
and cushion of the moss under
him, yet when he looked there
was nothing there. He grasped
it with his hands and found it
empty, though the moss seemed to
yield and the blades of grass to
bend under his weight. It was
like madness rising up into his
brain, and he felt with a mingling
of ideas distraught that he must
spring to his feet and rush forth
after God upon His awful way,
crying to Him, entreating, blas-
pheming, forcing His attention,

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143

though it was through that incom-
prehensible whirl of space, and
threading the unseen path from
star to star.

But that wild impulse, like
others, died away. A man, be he
ever so rebellious, learns to know
that the impossible hedges all his
steps : and he sank back upon his
tree, suppressing himself, binding
himself into the submission which
he knew at the bottom of his
heart was his only hope. He
felt no fatigue, notwithstanding
his long journey and the dreadful
disappointment at the end. None
of those imperious needs of the
flesh which fill up bo much of the
time and distract so many of the
thoughts of earth, moved him at
all. He was free from everything,
weariness and pain, and food and
sleep and shelter. No thought of
these things filled his mind. He
did not even remark his exemp-
tion, so natural it seemed. He
knew only the impossibility that
girded him round and round. He
could not change the condition he
had come to. No one could change
it. Such as it was he had to
endure it, to find the reason for
it, to discover the compensation.
To go mad, and dash his head
against the confines of the world,
and force a reversal from God of
his sentence was impossible. Ah !
he fell low again, with his face
hidden in the softly rustling grass.
The impossible girt him round with
its circle of iron. Rebel, submit,
content himself, go mad — these
were all things that could be done.
But reverse God's sentence, no !
not if he had the strength of giants,
not if he had the power of the whole
world, upon a little sod of whose
surface his wounded spirit lay.

Presently he had controlled him-
self, and was sitting again with his
back against his tree and his head
leaning on his hands, gazing out
upon the night yet seeing nothing.

And aa he sat there all his life
rolled out before him like a long
panorama — his little life with all
its broken scenes, of which he had
never known the meaning. Often
he had thought they had no mean-
ing, as certainly they had no in-
tention, no plan, but only a foolish
impulse, a touch from some one
here and there, who had pushed
him unthinking to one side'or an-
other — not the straight way. "What
a succession of accidents it was to
end in this ! no purpose in it — no
meaning: all a foolish rush here
or there haphazard, the affair of a
moment, although fate had taken up
the changeful threads and woven
it into certainty for ever. He
saw himself a boy, hesitating with
one foot on the upper slope, drawn
back by errant fancy, by curiosity,
by accident — always by accident !
— then, finding the lower road the
easier, the higher hard to begin,
putting off till to-morrow and to-
morrow — but no meaning in it, oh,
no purpose, no settled plan of
rebellion, no intention to offend.
He went over this again and again,
till he felt himself a deeply injured
man. Never had he meant any
harm: he had even tried not to
hurt any one else while he took his
own pleasure, and he remembered
the words that had been in the air
following him wherever he went
— nobody's enemy but his own.
That was true, that was true !
He had not tempted any one, nor
ever defied God, whom he never
doubted, for whose name, had there
been need for that, he felt that he
could have died rather than have
been apostate to it. The tears
came into his eyes with this
thought. He had been wrong,
very wrong : he had always known
that, and hated it — yet done the
same again: but never with any
blasphemous meaning, never de-
fying God, always knowing that
the other way was the best, and

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hoping one day when his hour of

pleasure was over And what

had he not paid already for his
folly ! — of all that he might have
done in the other life, he had done
nothing ; of all that he might
have attained, nothing. He had
wrought no deliverance in the
earth. It was all loss, loss, mis-
erable failure: and hearts break-
ing, his own as well as the rest.
But no purpose in it. He had
never intended any day of his
disobedience, from first to last, to
deny his Maker or insult Him.
Never, never I It was the one
thing he was certain of amid all
the doubts and changes, all the
confusions in his life.

And, perhaps, this was how it
happened, that when he had set
out on his journey that morning —
was it still the same morning, not
twenty-four hours off, the morning
of yesterday ? — his heart had been
so light. He had anticipated
nothing but good. He had made
sure that all the links of his old
habits would be broken, that he
would be lifted without effort of
his to a better sphere. He had
not said this to himself in words,
nor, indeed, was he clear in his
mind that he expected anything
definite, or what it was he ; ex-
pected — but only something good,
happiness that would bring back
all that he had missed in the
time that was past. Of one thing
he had been very sure, that he
would not err again : he had
thought of the ways of men, so
vain and melancholy, with a great
relief in being done with them.
And too glad and thankful he
would have been to be done with
them ! to take his place in the
home where he believed he was
going, and his share of all the duty
there, whatever it might be. But
now — no home, no duty, no life
for him. He was nothing — no
man, a Voice, and no more.

How many times, in what an
infinity of time and leisure, did he
go over these thoughts 1 The night
stole on, all glorious in quiet and
repose — some of the wondrous lights
above gliding out of sight as the
world in which he was ascended
and descended, going down into
the night, and then with a half-
Bensible turn and thrill turning
round to the day — and some came
up into sight in the great round of
the firmament that had been un-
seen before. Then a thrill ran
through the wood, and voices began
to awaken in the trees — little
tongues of birds twittering,
wakest thou, sleepest thou t—
among the branches, before all
their little world was roused
and the great hymn began. The
young man had not been pre-
pared for that hymn, and it took
him strangely in a surprise and
passion of sympathy : he said to
himself that he had not known
there were birds here, and the
moisture came to his eyes. Then
he tried to join with a note of his
man's voice and startled them all,
till he saw his mistake and tried
instead a low and soft whistle,
which they took for the note of a
new comrade and burst forth again.
The young man felt his spirit all
subdued by that morning hymn, and
tried to say his prayers in a great
confusion, stammering, not know-
ing what words to use. The old
prayers seemed so out of place.
And then he remembered what
all the people had said to
him — God save you ! — and re-
peated it with a faltering and a
trembling — God save me! God
save me ! Not "give me this day
my daily bread" Was that old-
fashioned? out of date? He
trembled, and all his strength
seemed to melt like water, and he
said only, God save me ! God save
me ! not knowing what he said.

All these strange emotions filled

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A Story of the Seen and Unseen.

145

the time and the world about him,
yet was his mind free to note the
growth of the morning, coming
fresh as it seemed out of the hand
of God : the great valley came
slowly to life and to the light, and
the silence filled with sound as
water wells up in a fountain. As
for himself, he did not stir, but
watched, not now despairing, nor
even questioning, but still : a spec-
tator wondering and looking on,
hushed to the bottom of his heart,
to Bee what all things did, having
for himself no duty, no work ; and
feeling, so far as he felt at all, a
nothingness, as if he were part of
the mound on which he lay, where
he fancied vaguely the grasses had
begun already to grow over him.
What would they do, they who
were other than he, they to whom
everything belonged, though to
him nothing belonged f He
watched what they would do, what
the morning would bring to them,
with much eagerness in his heart ;
but the thickness of the trees and
the brushwood, which was very
close in that direction, shut out his
view. And perhaps his curiosity
was not so great as he thought, for
his mind filled with many thoughts
which revolved about himself, and
presently he forgot all that was
around him, and became, still a
spectator indeed, but a spectator
of his own being, and of those
things which were going on in
it. And it seemed now that the
thing most natural to him, who now
possessed nothing of his own, was
to go back upon the time when he
possessed so much, love and com-
panionship, and hope and the
power of doing, and pleasure of
every kind. His heart had grown
sick of that life before he left it,
and he had often felt it empty of
everything, and that all was
vanity. But now his heart re-
turned to it, longing and wonder-

VOL. CLXI. — NO. DCCCCLXXV.

ing how he should ever have been
so weary. Then he had been a
man, but now was nothing, a Voice
only, no more. And when he re-
membered how, in the smallest
thing as in the greatest, he had
chosen and taken his own way,
and had pleasure in his will and
independence, and had done this
and that because he pleased, with
no other reason for it, and that
now there was nothing for him to
choose, nothing to do — himself
nothing, and all his ways nothing,
a straw blown upon the wind ! In
the other life there had been
threatenings of punishment and
torture, but never of this — and he
thought to himself, though with a
shiver, that the fire and the burn-
ing would have been more easy to
bear, and perhaps a fierce en-
counter with the devils who tor-
mented lost souls — a rising up
against them, and call for justice
out of the pit. To fight, to
struggle, to resist, these fierce joys
seemed to attract him, to revive
his heart. But here there was
nothing — neither good nor evil,
neither use nor destruction. The
Power which he had offended de-
spised him, would not lay a finger
on him, left him to rot and perish.
No! worse by far than that, to
go on in nothingness for ever and
ever, to be and not to be, at one

and the same time

As these thoughts began to
quicken and whirl through his
brain — for though he began in
quiet they gradually gained velo-
city and strength, till the rush was
like the blazing of fire or the sweep
of water in a flood, consuming and
carrying him away — he became
aware of an external sound which
drove them away at once like a
flight of birds careering out of
sight. And looking up whence the
sound came, he saw a movement
as of some one searching amid the

K

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brushwood, and presently the thick
branches were pushed aside and a
face suddenly appeared, looking in
to the opening in which the young
man sat It was a face which
awakened in him at first a great
throb of loving and kindness, being
a countenance he had longed for for
many a day, thinking that had it
shone upon him on earth it might
have saved him from all his follies :
but along with this there came a
rush of resentment into his mind
which checked the cry of "Father ! "
which had come to his lips. And
he sat unmoving, allowing those
eyes to search through the shade,
though he knew that till he spoke
he could never be found. It gave
him a kind of angry pleasure to
see the curves of anxiety round
them, the eagerness of the look.
Ah, he was sorry ! but what was
that when he had shut his door,
when he had made no effort to
bring the wanderer in. "My
mother," said the young man,
" would have been different : never
would she have rested and left me
outside;" but then there struck
him like an arrow the thought of
many moments in the past when
he had said to himself, "If my
father had been here!"

The other figure stood wistfully
under the shadow of the tree — a
man not old, full of the dignity and
strength of life — like one who knew
much and had seen much, and whose
hands were full of serious affairs.
You might have been Bure that he
had left for a moment many things
that called for his care to come
here on this quest. His eyes were
clear, shining with truth and justice
and honour. Such eyes shine like
stars even in the earth, and the
eyes of the helpless understand
and the poor cry to them. Noth-
ing could disturb the heavenly
quiet in them, the look of a soul
at peace ; but the curves of the
eyelids were troubled, and the

strain of anxious love was in his
face. After a moment he said,
the softness of his voice Beeming
to search through the silence as
his eyes searched through the
void, " My son 1 are you here, my
sonl"

The young man still paused a
little, unwilling to relieve the
other, yet not willing to lose the
pleasure of revealing like a re-
proach his own abandoned state.
"I am here," at last he said.

The father pushed through the
trees and came to him quickly, and
once more there came into the
young man's mind the story of
him who saw his son a long way
off, and ran and fell upon his neck.
Had he himself been as of old,
this was what his father would
have done — but how can a man
embrace a voice ? Yet the move-
ment melted him, and made him
rise to his feet to meet the other,
though still with that unreasoning
resentment in his mind, as though
the door had been shut upon him,
which was not shut, though he
was unable to cross the threshold.
There was authority and command,
as of one used to rule, in the face
of this man who was his father:
but everything else was veiled with
the great pity and love that was
in his voice. "It was not thus
we hoped to welcome you, my son,
my son ! " he cried, coming near,
with his arms stretched out.

" How is it," cried the young
man, " that I feel all my members
from head to foot, and every
faculty, and yet you see me not,
touch me not? It makes a man
mad to be, and yet not to be."

"God save you ! " said the father,
with tears. "God aid you! We
know not how it is — nor can we
do anything to help. It is for
your purification, and because that
which is must have its natural
accomplishment. The sins of the
flesh destroy the flesh, as is just.

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But you, you are still able to love,
to think, to adore your God in His
works. My son, accept and submit
— and the better day will come."

" Submit ! to be nothing ! " said
the young man. And then he
cried bitterly, "Have I any
choice 1 It is stronger than I am.
I must submit, since you will
not help, nor any one. If my

mother " and here his voice

broke. It was not that his mind
felt all the bitterness with which he
a poke : and he knew that no one
could help him : yet having in him
still all the humanness of a child,
it gave him pleasure to wound one
who might have helped him had
things been otherwise, and to
prove that he was abandoned and
forsaken, he who hitherto had
always been helped and forgiven.
He looked for reproof, but none
came. His father, standing so near
him, looking at him with such
tender pity, said nothing but " My
son ! " and as these two words,
whether from the Most High God
or from the faltering lips of a man,
enclose all of love that words can
carry, what was there more that
could be said?

" My son," he said, " it is not
permitted here that we should dis-
cuss or that we should justify the
ways of our God. Though you
cry out against them, you know
that they are just and very merci-
ful, punishing not, but permitting
that this which must be, should
be accomplished in you. Yet not
without hope. All that is of the
spirit is yours as before. You can
judge, you can understand, you
can know. And above all you
can love. What is greater than
the mind and the heart 1 You are
but naked of this frame, this body
which is beloved and blessed be-
cause it is as the body of the Lord.
But even for this not without hope.
My child, the day will come when
you will not think only of yourself.

You will begin to think of Him
who for us lived and died and
lived again, and is for ever and
ever. You will not consent to
wipe out His name, but stand for
Him among your fellows. And
other things that are not you will
fill your heart "

" That are not me ! — but who is
so miserable as I?" cried the young
man, covering his face with his
hands.

The father paused for pity,
looking at him with eyes that
were full of tears. "It has not
been given to you, oh my son,"
he said, "to pass by the Temple
in the wood : yet still it may be.
Heretofore you have done what
you would, but not here : for here
the will of God reigns alone, and
man can contradict it no more.
Yet from time to time," he said,
" from time to time there is in this
great Land of Suspense, as in all
the worlds where the myriads of our
brethren dwell, a day of grace, when
the Lord Himself passes through.
As he goes to visit the spheres of
His dominions there is no place
where He does not pass through,
and hears every cry and heals every
soul that comes to Him. Beloved
be His name ! Blessing and love
breathe round about Him, and no
one whom it touches can withstand
that holy breath."

The young man looked up, and
for a moment it seemed that the
eyes of the heavenly man and of
the spirit met, and that he who
was in the body, that house of God
not made with hands, saw him
who was out of the body : for the
eyes of the son were full of tears
like those of the father, and he
said with a broken voice, "So I
have always been taught to think
of Him. I am no stranger, my
father, my father ! I have sinned
but yet I am of His house."

"God bless thee, my so"," the
father said.

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an.

IV.

After this there came weary
mornings and evenings, or what
he felt to be such, taking no
account of them, yet rousing ever
from his thoughts to feel the glory
of the day and the sweetness of
the night ; for neither tempest nor
trouble was there, and the other
great worlds that are visible in
the dark, rolling along their course
in the world of space, became as
the houses of friends opening their
doors, showing ever another and an-
other world of men, some like those
others^ white men and shining, some
in hosts of vague faces like the
shadow of crowds which he knew
to be as himself: and the sensation
of all those multitudes about who
peopled what we call the sky, multi-
tudes more than could be numbered,
being all those who had lived and
died on the earth since its wonder-
ful story began, silenced and
soothed him as we are soothed to
know that others are as we are,
treading the same path. Many
things were there which he could
not understand. Sometimes it ap-
peared to him that he could see
the signs of great commotion in
one of those neighbouring worlds,
and shouting afar off, which came
but as a murmur to his ears ; and
once it seemed to him that he saw
a great procession coming forth, as
if the King were making a visita-
tion from one star to another, and
a great shining bridge of light was
thrown from planet to planet, by
which He went and came.

It was a long time, however,
before he saw that passing through
of which his father had told him.
Yet one day, in the rising of the
morning, a note as of a silver
bugle suddenly penetrated the
spheres, and everything stirred
with expectation, the very air and
the birds in the trees, and every-

thing that had life. He himself,
drawn he could not tell how, al-
most against his will, by some-
thing that overmastered him, that
made his breath come quick and
his heart beat, hastened to the
hill behind the wood, and placed
himself on the highest point, where
he could see all that went on be-
low. Fain would his feet have
gone farther, fain would they have
carried him to the level of the val-
ley which he could see stretching
far to the east and to the west: for
already he saw the first of the great
procession appearing, and all the in-
habitants of the town which should
have been his home pouring forth
in bands, in glistening garments,
with flowers and palms to strew
upon the path of Him that was
coming. The young man knew
who it was that was coming, and
his heart seemed to go forth out
of his breast towards that great
Traveller ; but there was something
in him that held back, and that
made him cover his face in an
anguish of shame. For who was
he that he should dare to look
upon the Lord as He passed, bless-
ing all men upon His way 1 Some-
thing came floating up to him upon
the air like a waft of blessing :
was it a call to him — the sound of
his name 1 He knew not, but dug
his hands into the roots of the
grass, and dared not to lift up his
eyes. And in the meantime the
great procession went on, while
his heart, as it were, contended
with him and cried, moaning and
foaming and struggling, that he
should go, while still he kept back
ashamed, asking himself how he
dared to look the Lord in the face,
or hear Him blessing the people,
and find there was no word for
him ? There he lay, feeling every
member of his frame contend with

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him to get to the feet of the Lord,
yet he holding back : until all the
wonderful marching of the train
had passed along and become bat
an indistinct radiance upon the
way, when he lifted his eyes and
looked after them, and broke into
a great weeping, thinking that
still he saw One in the midst like
none whom he had ever seen be-
fore, One to whom his heart went
out, and whom he would have
given heaven and earth to follow.
But the moment was over, and he
could now follow no more.

This happened but once, and it
may not be supposed that he spent
all the endless time he had at his
disposal in so agitating a way. By
moments these thoughts came upon
him and possessed him : yet seldom,
for he was seldom alone, his fellow-
inhabitants, both of one side and
the other, coming to him continu-
ally and occupying him with other
plans and ideas. Many visitors
he had from the town upon the
hill, the dwelling of his kindred :
but time fails us to tell of these,
and all the tender words they
said, and their pity and their
love. Sometimes he would speak
with them — sometimes, if other
things were in his mind, would
make no response nor let them
know where to find him, prefer-
ring the society of those who were
as himself, and were with him
always, sometimes one, sometimes
many, talking and making expedi-
tions here and there. They led
him to many wonderful places,
and showed him great sights, and
many mysteries of the spheres be-
came visible to him, and know-
ledge not permitted to earth, so
that he could now solve many
questions and find them simple,
which, in the days of his former
life, he could remember to have
thought upon with awe as things
that it was impossible to fathom.
Thus he became wise, and more

learned than the sages of the for-
mer world, and found a certain
pleasure in these things which he
learned and saw.

And it soon became apparent
to him that many of his new
companions held the belief that it
was they who were the fortunate
ones, being disencumbered of all
hindrances and cares, with no
duty or responsibility, but free to
follow their pleasure, to go where
they pleased, to enjoy knowledge
and science and all the pleasures
of the mind. There were some
indeed who were like himself, and
would not be comforted because
of being no longer men but only
voices, without identity, without
substance, and incapable of uniting
themselves to each other save with
the loosest ties. They were not
brethren for joy and for sorrow,
for neither was there : they could
not stand by each other, or pledge
themselves to be true friends for
death and life, for of that there
was no need. They were but
acquaintances, each lost in the
invisible when they parted, walk-
ing and talking together as long
as each pleased the other, with no
fellowship of mutual labour, or the
sharing of work trouble. Wher-
ever one voice accosted another
there was acquaintance, but noth-
ing that went further; for they
had no mutual hopes or fears or
anything to link them more closely
together.

And many of those who had
been long in this condition had
made a belief for themselves, and
tried to teach it to the new-comers,
that this was the perfect life ; for
was not all freedom among them,
no bondage, not even that of
staying in one place, or confin-
ing yourself to one kind of asso-
ciates, no pain, no limitations, but
each free to learn all he could, to
perfect his genius, to increase his
knowledge 1 Was not this enough

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for any soul 1 And some of them
scoffed at the idea of any reckon-
ing yet to come, pointing oat the
unreasonableness of it, the impos-
sibility of even recollecting, far
less answering for, the events
which had happened perhaps hun-
dreds of years before, during the
short time when one inhabited
that foolish body, by some thought
a disgusting thing, "a collec-
tion of sewers." And if there
was no great day to come, which
the very oldest spirits said had
been threatened thousands of
years since in their recollection
and had never come to anything,
what came of the equally old and
foolish traditions of a divine per-
sonage ruling over all? As for
the men who lived in all those
villages and towns, who thought
they were better than their neigh-
bours, whom with their restricted
faculties they could not see, what
were they but labourers still, with
work and responsibilities upon
them, — how much less happy than
they who went free !

There were many, however, who
were very uneasy when such con-
versation as this prevailed, and of
these was the young man, whose
thoughts were very fluctuating in
respect to himself, but never on this
point. " If you had seen, as I did,"
he would say, " the procession pass ;
and felt the heart tear out of you
to go and fling itself at His feet."
The elders laughed at such words,
and bade him wait till he had seen
it a hundred times, and without
any feeling at all : but the others
made a pause which betrayed some
uneasy thoughts, and secretly were
glad that they could not see each
other's faces or betray the strange
response in their own minds to
what he said. One voice, a little
tremulous, spoke, and said that
these things which he called body
and heart were an illusion, a dis-
torted recollection of the chrysalis

state in which their consciousness
began ; and another, that the body
which had been mentioned was
like a dog, and faithful, in its
brutal way, to what it had been
taught. They were all together,
that company of wandering souls,
in a great tower which stood upon
the extreme edge of the world in
which they dwelt, and which was
built upon the rock, standing out
into the illimitable world of space
as into the sea, with precipices im-
measurable sinking down below,
lower than thought could reach,
while the great tower rose higher
than thought, swung upon thatgiddy
edge, and, though builtof indestruc-
tible rock, quivering in the great
sweep of the atmosphere more tre-
mendous than on the highest moun-
tain-top. There were all the secrets
of the celestial world revealed,
and all the movements of the stars,
and the workings of the planetary
system, and all the wonderful ap-
paratus by which they were ob-
served and noted. And many
men of the other kind were in
that place, were at work and busy,
whose duty it was to watch over
the balance and the trim of all
these blazing worlds, and to see
that each kept in its orbit, and all
its attendant stars in their places,
that there might be no wavering in
the march of the heavens.

The wanderers went and came,
through all these wonderful sights,
and no one noted their coming and
their going : for all the others were
busy with their work and occu-
pation, never slackening in their
watch. And the young man, and
some of his younger companions
with him, looked upon them with
envy, longing, but in vain, for some
part or lot in the matter, and not to
be thus unseen and without use in
the great universe which seemed
to go on without them though en-
closing them in its great and mystic
round. And as they gazed out from

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that watch-tower one of the others
pointed to a little darkling planet
hanging upon the skirts of space,
half seen amid the glory of the
greater stars. "That speck," he
said, " is what we called the Earth,
and bragged of as something great
and wonderful in oar time. Look
at it, contemptible ! dim with
smokes and fogs, and the breath
of toiling men."

" Yet it^was our mother," said
the young man, "and there we
lived, and there we died."

" If you call that, the throes of
the birth -hour, living: and the
journey hither dying — trifling in-
cidents of our career." It was the
same voice which had first accosted
him when he arrived in that world
which now spoke, and there were
many with him, the elder spirits :
while with the young man were
many of the new-comers, still sore
and wounded to feel themselves
dropped out of everything, and
humbled to feel that they were but
voices, and no longer men and
women as of old. And they turned
with the young man as he stretched
out hia arms, leaning on the para-
pet, unto the wide and whirling
world of space.

" Oh little earth ! " he said, " full
of vapour and smoke and the
thoughts of men, rising up to
heaven. At least we were some-
thing then, not nothing : and dear
Love was there, and all the hopes
of God."

"Why not now also — why not
now?" said something, that was
but a tremble and a quiver by his
side. "Because," said the elder
spirit, " we need not these ancient
visions. Free souls are we in
the world of thought, despising all
that is below, knowing nothing
that is above. What do ye mur-
mur at, ye crew ? What would ye
have, insatiate souls 1 The uni-
verse is ours to admire and to
enjoy. We go where we will, we

live as we will. You want these
phalansteries, these houses on the
hills ! prisons and bondage. What
need ye, beyond what we have ? "

The young man leaned over, the
great wind playing with him, as if
it subdued its force not to carry
away this light and petty scrap
of being. And stretching out his
hands, he said, " What we want —
it is God and Love."

This he said, nob so much out of
his own heart, as because there
was something of that in him which
poets have. And being so, he
knew that it was true. And the
spirits round him murmured and
sobbed and repeated, "God and
Love." And the others were silent
and said no word.

He went back afterwards to his
living place in the wood, which he
had come to love because it was
near the home of those who were
his ; and a number of those wan-
derers went with him, talking of
what he had said and of what was
in their hearts. " We thought it
was here we should have found
Him," they said ; " we thought
that to come hither was all that
was wanted. Tell us, thou ! has
He failed 1 We were never His
servants, jet we believed that He
would save us at the end."

" This is not the end — it is but
the beginning," the young man said.

" And will He save us, will He
save us — at the end ? " The voices
all together were like a blast of
weeping wind.

Then the young man turned
upon them and cried, " What are
we 1 what are we 9 Let us perish
if He will, but He be all in all ! "

This he said because of some-
thing that had come into him he
knew not how : he felt it and
obeyed its impulse, but knew not
why. For still the first thing in
his own heart, as in theirs, was
to be saved — to be once more a
man in His image, and no longer a

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wandering ghost unclothed. To be
and to be seen of his fellows, and to
speak with other men — even if it
should bring pain and sorrow ; for
sorrow and pain are higher things
than to be nothing, though at your
ease and free as the wind.

He sat all that night through
on his favourite mound, thinking
and pondering within himself;
and as he thought of all he had
seen and the great Universe that
had opened upon him at the height
of that watch-tower, the wondrous
circle of the stars, and all the
mysteries of being which hung
upon His breath who made them,
he began to understand what he
himself had said, and his eyes
grew wet as when he had seen the
Lord pass and his heart had fought
with him to get free to fling itself
in the Master's path. He had
held it back then, but not now.
He looked up to the skies above
him, and saw those glorious worlds

for ever moving in that sublime
circle around the unseen throne ;
and this world in which he was
swaying softly turning toward the
highest Light. And he said to
himself what one had said thous-
ands of years ago — a shepherd-boy
under the starry heavens — " What
is man that Thou art mindful of
him?" And it seemed to him
that he himself, about whom he
had been spending so many
thoughts, murmuring because of
his losses, and convulsing all the
quiet wood with longings after
another state — he himself, who had
been the centre of the world to
him, was indeed nothing, no more
than a drop of dew or a blade of
grass in the great Universe of
God. And he cried out, but softly,
to the One that hears all things,
" Be Thou ! for ever and ever 1 and
let me be nothing, for nothing I
am. But Thou, be Thou supreme
and all in all!' 1

v.

In the glory of the morning the
young man awoke, for even in the
solemnity of his act, giving up
everything, even hope if the Lord
so willed, he had been surprised
by that human sweetness of sleep
which was not necessary to his
state of being, yet delightful as
the dew when it came, refreshing
the soul. There was never any-
thing but fair weather in that
world, yet it seemed to him when
he opened his eyes that no day
had ever been so fair as this ; and
he asked himself, Was it perhaps
Easter or some great holiday, of
which he had lost count in the
passing of the years and the days 7
Everything shone and glistened
and sent forth breathings of de-
light under the shining of the sun,
and the whole world was gay, and
every drop of dew was like another
perfect world of joy and blessing.

He could not rest where he was
on so happy a morning, but went
forth and visited all the wood, as
one visits one's friends when there
is a great rejoicing to see that
they are rejoicing too.

At last he found himself upon
that pleasant knoll from which he
could see the whole valley lying
in a rapture under the joyful
light; and he saw that there
was much movement in the town
near him, and once more faces
at all the windows, and white
figures looking over the parapet
of the ascent where he had gone
up, but had not been admitted.
They were looking then for some
one, some one who would be of
his kindred ; and it would be an
event for hira as well as for them,
and perhaps even he would gain
something — a companion, a friend.
But he stopped these thoughts

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while they were in his mind, and
tried to think what it would be to
him if the new-comer was received
where he had not been received,
and came as a man in the body
which God gave — to be among the
others, not banished into nothing-
ness. For a long time he was in
doubt, for no one came up the as-
cending path except those whom he
knew, whose business it was, and
he looked in vain for a stranger ;
and there began to rise in his heart
a half hope half fear that he for
whom they were all looking should
come as he himself had done — in-
visible : a voice only, and no man.
But lo ! while he watched there
came forth from the silver line
of the great highway a single
figure, of one who sang as he came
— not in haste, but almost slowly,
standing still and looking round
him from time to time, as if the
beauty of the world was so sweet
to him that he could not go on,
then turning his face towards the
town and proceeding upon his
way. The young man put out
his hands, and suddenly clasped
them together, and gazed in a
suspense upon which his whole
being seemed to hang. It was
he, it was he ! He had known
the outline against the light while
it was still but a shadow ; he had
recognised every footstep, and the
turn of the head, and every line
and every movement. Oh, how
easy to know those who are one's
own, however far off ! — the familiar
gesture, the little movement that
is nothing, that a stranger would
never see. He sprang up to rush
down the hill and meet him, call-
ing his name, and reflecting that
even those at the gate, though they
were there to welcome him, could
not know him as he did. But his
feet were as rooted to the soil, and
he sank down again with a sob in
his bosom, and a strong pang that
seemed to rend him in twain.

Not for him, not for him, was
this delight, to meet his brother
and fall upon his neck, and ask a
thousand things of home! To
look on was all that was permit-
ted to him. Why should he go,
who was nothing, who could not
take his hand, or show his face
where those were who were the
people of the Lord 1 He sank
down upon his knoll, and covered
his face with his hands, and heard
the tumult of glad voices, and the
welcomes and shouts of joy with
which the wayfarer was taken in.
He listened to every word, while
the voices streamed up the steep as-
cent and the stranger was brought
with rejoicing to his father's house.
Was he glad too? Was there a
pang in his heart, thinking that
these welcomes had been prepared
for him too, till it was discovered
what he was? His voice, which
was all he had, seemed choked in
his throat. He could not speak,
he could not cry. Vanity of vani-
ties, nothing of nothingness ! even
his voice went from him, and he
was no more than a thought.

Thus it was that he did not see,
because he could not look : but
heard every sound and the foot-
steps on the stones, and the shouts
from above and the songs be-
low. When they died away he
felt in the bitterness of his heart as
if he had been again shut out, as
if it had been the day of his first
refusal ; but, more bitter still, shut
out, and for ever shut out, and
never again to bold converse with
his kin and rejoice with them.
For what should he rejoice? That
he was shut out, and that the
open gates were barred against
him, and only him ? But at least
they might have let him share
the joy that his brother had come
and was more happy than he. He
sprang up and turned away, still
covering his face, that he might
not see those walls and towers

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into the heart of which the joy
of welcome had swept, and were
now but faintly heard — and went
quickly away and hid himself
in the heart of the wood : not
in his accustomed place, — partly
because his heart was sick of all
that lived and breathed about
him, and partly in perversity, that
they might not find him when
they came to search for him, as
he knew they were sure to do.
Ah ! why was this? why was this,
that an event which was so joyful
should throw him back, back into
the abyss from which his soul had
escaped? He had escaped from
himself; he had consented to be
nothing, and to know that he was
nothing — that it was not for him
that heaven and earth should be
disturbed, as if an atom was to
make so much commotion for its
own wellbeing ; but now this atom
once again blotted out both God
and Heaven.

He struggled manfully in his
heart to come to an end "I
know," he said to himself, "that
it was not fit that I who had
sinned should be rewarded. I have
come to little harm. I suffer noth-
ing. I have the whole world left,
more beautiful than heart had con-
ceived. And once in a thousand
years the Lord will pass by, and
I shall see Him, even if it be no
more. And they will all come to
comfort me and talk to me, and
not forget me — and my brother

" But he did not say my

brother. He said a name; and
at the sound of that name a great
sobbing seized him, and the recol-
lection of so many things that
were past, and the home that

never had been closed against him,
and the love that had been his all
his life. And then there came
upon him suddenlyanotherthought,
at the coming of which his heart
stood still, and strained upon all
its chords as if it would sink away
from him : and he fell upon his
knees and lifted up his head and
cried with an awful cry, " God ! the
mother, the mother ! " And the
far distant earth seemed to roll up
under his vision and open, and
show a house desolate and a woman
who sat within. And he who was
himself desolate, yet within sight
of the joy, forgot himself and
everything that was his, to think
of her. The mother, the mother !
he flung himself on his face, he
rose again to his feet, he stood and
held out his hands to God, calling
to him and repeating His name,
"God ! God ! " and then "Father ! "
if, perhaps, that might reach him
better. "For now she is alone,"
he cried. And then in his trouble
he reproached the Most High God,
and cried out, " Thou are not
alone ; Thou hast Thy Son." And
he forgot all his trouble and com-
plaining, and became all one prayer,
one cry for another, for one who
was desolate and had now no child.
Then straight like an arrow from
a bow he went away, leaving his
wood and the home of his kindred,
and the valley, hastening he knew
not where. For in his heart he
felt that there must be some way,
some place in which he could
reach the footstool of the great
Father, and pray to be forgotten
and blotted out for ever, rather
than that she should be left to
weep alone.

VI.

It was close to one of those great
bridges by which the Lord passed
to the other worlds around, — a
bridge that rose light as the sea-

foam, built of white marble and of
alabaster, and every line marked
with fine gold, which sometimes
shone as if with jewels, and some-

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A Story of the Seen and Unseen.

155

times seemed to melt away in the
clouds as if it had not been ; bat
whether it was built of the stones
of the earth, or whether of vapours
and cloud, flung itself boldly across
the abyss, and bore the army and
the attendants of the Lord whenever
He came. And near to this place,
where the broad highway seemed
itself to march and continue along
the bridge, there was a cathedral
in the wood. The young man had
heard of it from many. It was by
this great temple that those others
passed who preserved their being
as men : and those who were but
Voices moaned and lamented often,
saying that they had missed the
way. But it was not for this, nor
indeed knowingly at all, that the
young man made his way here :
but only in the height of his an-
guish, that he might find some holy
place where God might listen to
his cry.

The day had come towards its
end, and the glory of the sunset
lit up the white and glorious
bridge which spanned the air and
clouds, and disappeared into a
mystery of the unseen such as
no eyes of man could penetrate
or trace, to the other side. The
young man did not pause to look
at this wonder of the world, but
turned aside to the temple in the
wood. His footsteps were drawn
towards it, he scarcely knew how :
but until he saw it he knew not
that this was that Temple of which
he had heard. But of that great
cathedral what tongue can tell 1 ?
for it was not built by hands, nor
were its arches created and its
pillars put into their place by any
workman, whether mortal or im-
mortal ; for where it stood it grew
with its feet in the living soil, and
every column a living tree straight
and noble, and the vault above
woven of foliage, which changed
and moved with every breath, and
let in the changings of the light,

living too, and moving ceaselessly
from east to west through all the
brilliant hours of the day; and
during the night a great vision of
stars was in the place where the
lights should be, like silver lamps
upon the altar, and in the lofty
fragrant roof, where the leaves
trembled and glistened : and its
floor was made of living flowers
throwing up their fragrance, which
was sweeter than incense : and
day by day it lived and grew,
pushing higher and higher towards
the skies, straight and tall and
strong, reaching upward like the
living thing it was. The sun-
set was still upon the western
front, and streaming upon the
great doorway, which was ever
open, and wreathed in every climb-
ing thing that blows, the long
branches clinging one to another
to find a place, and the flowers
thickening and clustering upon
the holy arch in an esgerness to
be there : and there was a sound
within of noble music and choirs
unseen, which sang their hymns of
praise to Qod both through the
night and in the day.

The young man went in with-
out a pause, thinking neither of
the beautiful place nor of the
strangeness of it, but only that it
was the temple not made with
hands, where the Lord loved to
pause on his journey, and where
the great Father came to com-
mune with His Son, and which
the ever-living Spirit had chosen
for a place to dwell in : al-
though not in this place or any
other was that great Presence
bound, but might be called upon
by every path, and even in the
common highroad where all men
went to and fro. The young man
did not remember except in a
confusion what it was he had
heard of the cathedral in the
wood, nor knew he why he came,
except with a thought that it was

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156

The Land of Suspense :

[Jan.

the holiest place; and now there
was no thought in his mind but
only one, to call upon every Holy
name, — that of the Father, who
surely knew if there was any
knowledge, what love was in the
heart of a mother : and of the Son,
who knew what sorrow was, and
to be forsaken, above all men that
ever lived : and of Him whose
name was the Comforter. He
flung himself upon the floor, and
in the great silence— for the music
rolled away and was heard no
more when he came in — called
and called upon these Holy names.
" You who are together," he cried,
" leave not her alone ! " And in
the anguish of his prayer he was
bold, and reminded the Lord that
this was the image He had chosen
of a love that never failed. " Can
a woman forget her child, that she
should not have compassion on the
son of her womb." And should
He above, who knows best, He
who loves most, leave the woman
to be alone, alone !

Presently words failed him, and
he only knew that he held her as
it seemed up in his arms to God.
And slowly the living day died
out of the cathedral in the wood,
and the living night came in and
shone through the tracery of the
vault above, and the stars in their
places lit up the living walls,
and everything breathed a silent
worship up to the heavens, the
flowers with their odours and the
leaves with their greenness : and
every noble tree stood up and
called upon the name of the Lord.
And the swallow and the sparrow,
God's little children, and many a
singing bird weary with the joy
and the song of day, nestled
among the branches and went to
sleep in His care. And over the
young man there came a great
calm instead of the anguish of
that prayer, and as the soft hours
stole on to midnight, and the great

stillness wrapt him round and
round, fatigue and peace stole
over him, and he fell asleep in
the middle of his prayer among
the flowers.

There were those about who
were coming and going for ever,
faint with longing and desire to
enter the Temple of the wood. But
as in that world there are no bolts
and bars, but only an unseen bond
upon the feet and upon the heart
of a man, so that he cannot go
where he would until it is his
hour — all that these longing souls
could do was to linger and gaze
and await the moment when they
might enter. And many were al-
ways gathered about the door,
gazing in where they so fain would
be. And they saw the young
man lying upon the flowers, and
wondered at him that he should
sleep in so blessed a place.
And some said, " God forbid
that I should Bleep if I were
there " ; and some, " God save
him though he sleeps ! " And
one who stood almost upon the
threshold, and knew that he should
be one of the first to pass, hushed
these voices and said low, "It is
the beginning of the mystery and
of the new birth." And a murmur
arose very softly, and a faint cry-
ing, " What did he do to attain
the heavenly gift 1 " But the soul
upon the threshold hushed them
all : " Sleep came upon him while
he prayed. Be still and see the
goodness of the Lord : he prayed
not for himself but for another."

The night had gone while these
voices went and came: and he
that spoke last caught with his
words the little morning breeze
which at that moment sprang up
with the first glimmer of the sun ;
and all around the living walls of
that house not made with hands
it breathed back the words, " not
for himself but another," like a
song : and blowing in at the wide

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157

door — for nothing can stop the
winds of God, which make all the
world pure — breathed over the
young man where he lay. And in
his sleep he felt the soft touch
upon his forehead like the hand of
his mother, and waking, having
prayed for her till he slept, prayed
again when he was roused, with a
soft cry of " God save her 1 " while
still he was but half awake. And
in the waking he lay a long time
forgetting where he was. And he
saw something white and wonder-
ful stretched upon the flowers
where he lay, and knew not what
it was. Then slowly as he came
to himself he remembered every-
thing, and saw from the east the
first arrow of gold that told of the
sunrise, and in the great peace of
his heart he prayed no more, for it
seemed to him that his prayer was
heard. So sweet was that calm
that he lay and did not move,
recollecting himself, and saying
to himself that it was good to be
here, and listening to the birds,
which were all awake and already
singing the morning song which
he had learned to know so well.
And some descended swift through
the air, and perched close to him
upon the steps of the altar and
on the lower pinnacles, and sang
as if to burst their throats in a
tumult and outcry of joy. Blessed
creatures, little children of God !
he followed with a smile one that
came almost within reach of his
hand. And then his eyes were
drawn again to something white
and wonderful which lay as he lay
upon the floor. Some one, he said to
himself, had laid an angel's mantle
over him as he slept; and there
came a rush of soft tears to his
eyes, and his heart melted with
gratitude and kindness. But when
he moved it moved with him, and
putting out an astonished hand,
he suddenly touched and knew
that this was he — no mantle even

of an angel, but the body of a
man. Oh, holy house not made
with hands ! oh, Temple of the
Lord ! — for this was he.

And a voice said :

11 He hath accepted that which
was allotted to him, and acknow-
ledged that it was just; therefore
there is now given to him the
higher state.

"He hath acknowledged his
Lord ; wherefore his Lord doth
not forget to acknowledge him.

"And here he hath come to seek
the face of God, not for himself
but for another; wherefore he
goes hence blessed, with the bless-
ing he has not sought."

The young man had not gone
back half the way to the city of
his fathers when he was met by
a shining company, all radiant in
their best apparel, with music and
with song ; and in front of all was
his brother, whose arrival he had
beheld before he set forth. And
lo! while all men looked and
held their breath, they stood
together, two fair young men —
fairer than they had been on
earth, or than any man is to
whom has not been given the
house not made with hands. And
together they went back to their
father's house to do the work
which God might give them,
whether it was humble or whether
it was great, until the day should
come when the books shall be
opened and all the worlds stand
together in their armies and bat-
talions before the face of the
Lord. But of that day knoweth
no man, not even the Son, but
the Father — as was told us by our
Lord.

As for the prayer which he
made, and which was answered
in a way he asked not, it is still
unfulfilled : yet they know it is
not forgotten, for nothing is for-
gotten- before God.

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